


Appetiser

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, In which Carolyn owns a food truck instead of an airplane, M/M, chef!Martin, sous chef!Douglas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin can stand the heat of the kitchen. He can deal with the poor ventilation in the truck, the temperamental deep fryer, and even when the truck refuses to start after a long night of cooking. He can handle it all.</p>
<p>Except his sous chef Douglas, who has suddenly decided that the heat is too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetiser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vinyl_octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/gifts).



> Written as a gift for [vinyl-octopus](http://vinyl-octopus.tumblr.com/) during Summer Christmas 2014.

Martin stood diligently at the window, staring out at the quiet Fitton streets.

They hadn’t had a customer in hours.

In what was, unfortunately, fairly typical fashion, they’d experienced a good amount of foot traffic in the afternoon and early evening before the demand tapered, dropped off, then died. There’d been a few stragglers after the local theater production let out but that was two hours ago and the streets had been quiet ever since.

Martin sighed, tapping his pen absently against the order pad; he just wanted to cook.

A metallic creak and a tired moan announced the stirring of his sous chef, neither van nor man sounding particularly pleased about the movement. Martin rolled his eyes, glancing at the front of the van to see what would prompt Douglas, a master of skirting unnecessary work, to shift from his paper without any provocation.

His pen slipped from his fingers when he saw Douglas shrugging out of his chef jacket.

Douglas’ thin undershirt left very little to Martin’s imagination. The fabric, slightly damp with sweat, was tight across his chest and broad shoulders, the high cut of the sleeves exposing most of his arms. The softness of Douglas’ middle gave away his love of fine cheeses and finer leisures but his posture and the underlying cut of his figure told the story of a man who knew his way around a kitchen, a man who wasn’t intimidated by the heat from either flame or foe.

It was a sight Martin had seen only a few times before, most recently during Douglas’ last fight with the temperamental deep fryer; it was an image Martin both cherished and chastised himself over, frustrated with the idea that he’d fallen in love with his coworker.

Douglas’ eyes met his as he folded the jacket, forcing Martin, with a great deal of effort, to pull his eyes away and find his tongue.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he asked, trying - and to his ears, failing - to keep his voice steady.

“It’s sweltering in here, Martin,” Douglas complained, dropping the jacket onto one of the two front seats. “I’m not going to sit around and overheat in that thing when there’s no one around to see me do it.”

Martin kept his eyes on the empty streets, feeling a flush rising under the collar of his oppressive jacket. He tugged at it in an attempt to hide his reaction to Douglas’ torso or, better yet, play his agitation off on the heat. 

Douglas seemed to feel the move was pointed at him. “You can’t tell me that you don’t feel it too.”

Martin cleared his throat, hoping that the sound conveyed disapproval rather than the rush of adrenaline through his body. He felt many things, all of which he wished were easier to ignore, only one of which was the temperature in the poorly ventilated van. He picked up his fallen pen and began flipping through the stack of that night’s tickets, trying to deter Douglas’ attention with actual work.

“Regardless,” he muttered, hearing Douglas scoff at his rebuttal, “I, I think you should keep it on. Without it, you look…”

_Strong._

_Handsome._

_Shaggable._

Martin bit his tongue, forming and repeating an appropriate word in his mind until he was sure that word would come out.

“Unprofessional,” he finally managed.

Martin nodded, concluding his point for both his and Douglas’ sake. It _was_ unprofessional for Douglas to be parading around without his jacket on. It was also a health hazard; Martin would probably go insane if he had to work in such close proximity to Douglas’ thinly-clothed chest.

“‘Unprofessional’?” Douglas questioned, repeating Martin’s appropriate word. “Are you sure, _Chef_?”

Anxiety tinged the adrenaline coursing through Martin’s veins as Douglas’ tone dropped from agitated to annoyingly-sure-of-himself; years of working side-by-side in a confined space had taught Martin not to expect good things from that tone. He glanced up from the tickets, surprised to see Douglas standing much closer than he was before.

Martin tried to swallow through the sudden dryness in his throat. “Sure about what?”

“Your assessment,” Douglas said, advancing along the bench until he stood toe to toe with Martin, “that, in your opinion, I look _unprofessional_ without my jacket.” Martin took a clumsy step back, attempting to put space between them, but found that he was boxed in by the oven and the flat top. Douglas towered over him as he elaborated. “Are you sure that’s how you’d choose to describe my aversion to dress code? No other words come to mind?”

Martin shook his head, having no trust at all in his tongue not betraying him. Douglas grinned and stepped tortuously closer, nearly bringing their bodies in contact with each other.

“No?”

It was teasing; Martin could hear that it was teasing. He almost squeaked when Douglas touched him, just a finger under his chin, lifting it, encouraging Martin to look at him.

“Because your eyes, Chef Crieff, say ‘tempting,’” Douglas purred, the delicious sound waves reverberating in Martin’s bones at such a short distance. Douglas’ hand firmed on his chin, grounding Martin as he moved impossibly closer. “‘Enticing.’ ‘Delectable,’ as if you wanted nothing more than to eat me up.”

In the end, it was Martin’s head that betrayed him, not his mind but his head itself. He nodded then moaned when he found himself pressed between the bench and Douglas’ tempting, enticing, delectable kiss.

Douglas kissed with an intensity Martin expected but wasn’t prepared for. He kissed like he cooked: boldly with unique methods; his hands in, on, and over everything; constantly tasting without ever missing a beat. His touch brought a heat to Martin’s skin that rivaled any open flame, making Martin wish he wasn’t still wearing his stifling jacket. Martin struggled to keep up, to kiss back, as every sensation, every sound, touch, and taste, threatened to overwhelm him.

Martin’s arms found their way to Douglas’ shoulders, his hands pushing into Douglas’ sweaty hair as Douglas’ mouth trailed away from his lips. His sous chef wrestled with the buttons on Martin’s jacket until he’d exposed enough of Martin’s skin to nip and suck a mark at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Martin pushed his own hands between them to help the process along, wanting nothing more than to be closer - body to body, heart to heart - to Douglas.

He’d just started on the bottom buttons when a loud cough came from outside the window.

Martin turned awkwardly in Douglas’ hold, mortified to see Isabelle, Lily, and Tommy, three of the students he lived with at Parkside Terrace, waving at him from the street.

“Hi Martin,” Isabelle said nonchalantly, as if they hadn’t just caught him being snogged senseless in his place of work. “We were on our way home from this party when we remembered that your truck was in the area and we thought we’d stop by for something to eat. If that’s okay, of course,” she added, glancing momentarily at Douglas before offering Martin a knowing smile.

“Um, well-”

“Of course it is,” Douglas said, straightening Martin’s jacket with a quick tug before picking up the order pad behind him. “Martin and I were just discussing a personal matter. Now, what can we get you?”

Martin took the opportunity to duck behind the edge of the window, his back pressed up against the oven, as Douglas took his housemates orders. He tried his best to collect himself, doing up the buttons of his jacket and patting down his snog-ruffled hair. The only thing he couldn’t do was shake off the feeling of Douglas’ mouth on his skin; a slow, simmering heat seemed to radiate from every place Douglas kissed, bit, or licked him.

“Two specials and chicken salad, honey mustard dressing, no walnuts,” Douglas reported, handing Martin the ticket as he started the flat top.

Martin grabbed Douglas’ hand instead of the ticket. “Douglas, I… I’m sorry-”

“No need for apology, Martin. This is the job,” Douglas assured him.

He ended any further protest by drawing Martin into a kiss. It was light and gentle in comparison to the first but heavy with the promise of more, the hunger in Douglas’ touch quelling any fear Martin had that the untimely interruption would be the end of something that’d barely begun.

“First we cook.” Douglas grinned, his hand sliding surreptitiously over Martin’s trousers, “Then we eat.”


End file.
